


Prospect

by PsychGirl (snycock)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2019-06-13 03:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15355512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl
Summary: Jim's plan to catch gun smugglers by going undercover with the Cascade Reapers seems like a sure bet... until a new recruit makes that much more difficult





	Prospect

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Elaine, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Artifact Storage Room 3](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Artifact_Storage_Room_3) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Artifact Storage Room 3’s collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/artifactstorageroom3/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Written for Sentinel Thursday, prompt #381: prospect.
> 
> This just popped into my head when I read the prompt and wouldn't leave me alone. I'm not sure where it's going or even if there'll be any more. If it continues, it will eventually be NC-17.

Jim eased the throttle back on the big bike, slowing it down so he could maneuver it into the space at the end of the row. _Last one to arrive. Not good, Ellison._ He killed the engine, engaged the kickstand, and hung his helmet on the handlebar, working to control the frustration churning inside him. He needed to have his wits about him before he went into the clubhouse.

Four weeks, and he still hadn’t gotten any concrete information about how the Cascade Reapers were offloading Kalashnikovs from Russian tankers and moving them south to San Francisco. The tip had been a good one, both he and Simon had agreed. And going undercover had seemed like the right idea, especially once Tom Fletcher had been arrested. He and Tom had been bike enthusiasts in high school, and when Jim learned that Tom was a member of the Reapers, it seemed as if the means to get him in with the club had been laid at his feet like a gift. The charge was minor – trespassing – but Tom was on probation for assault, so he had been only too willing to vouch for “Jim Weller” from the Seattle chapter if it meant that he didn’t get sent back to jail to serve his time. 

And that brought Jim to his current circumstances. With Tom’s help, he’d developed a cover story about some trouble between him another club member in Seattle that’d resulted in him needing a place to hide out for a while. Nothing serious, and he was careful to be vague about it, just hinting that it had something to do with a woman. That was apparently enough for Carson Matthews, the Reapers president, who welcomed Jim with open arms.

But not open enough, apparently. Jim had gone on a few runs into the rival club’s territory – the Gypsy Jokers, they were called – but for most of the past four weeks he’d been hanging around the clubhouse, drinking beer and cooling his heels, shooting at targets and occasionally lending a hand with a bike or car repair. Nothing seemed to be happening as far as club business, and no one had breathed a word about guns. 

He strode towards the clubhouse, yanking his gloves off and stuffing them into the pockets of the Reaper colors Tom had loaned him. _Patience_ , he told himself, tamping down his annoyance. _You’re playing a long game here. You and Simon agreed that this could take a while._

It didn’t make him feel any better to realize that a good part of his frustration was because of Blair. He hadn’t thought he’d gotten that attached to the guy, but it seemed he’d been wrong. He missed him, plain and simple. He missed Blair’s bright smile and his open, clear gaze. He missed Blair’s running commentary on everything, and more than once had caught himself with a slight grin on his face imagining what Blair would make of the club and the power dynamics within. He missed Blair’s warm, rich scent, like coffee roasting, the way the afternoon sun lit up the reddish-brown highlights in his hair, and the way his eyes lit up when Jim teased him…

He shook his head sharply. _Enough of that_ , he chided himself. _You don’t need the distraction. Plus there’s no profit in thinking about it._ Blair and him weren’t something that was ever going to happen, for a whole lot of reasons, first and foremost Blair’s all-absorbing interest in the fairer sex. 

As he stepped into the cool dimness of the clubhouse he felt the role of Jim Weller settle over him like a tangible weight. He raised a hand in greeting to the club bartender, Pirate – the nickname earned when he’d lost one eye in a knife fight – collected the bottle of beer Pirate pushed towards him, and headed to the back room where the meetings were always held.

This was the first time he’d been explicitly invited to the monthly club meeting. They were generally for members only, so he was hopeful that this portended some change in his fortunes where the guns were concerned. He’d been trying to not let himself get too hopeful about it, though. 

The room was crowded. All the chairs around the table were taken, so he slid quietly into one against the wall and took a sip of beer. Carson acknowledged him with a nod and he returned it. Sonny, the vice-president, was talking, something about The North Pole, the stripper club that the Reapers ran in town. 

“So that makes twice this last week that some of the Jokers have come in, looking for trouble,” Sonny was saying.

“Same ones?” Finn, the club sergeant-at-arms wanted to know.

“Mostly. John Talbot and Scars Wilson, for sure. A couple of their prospects.”

“I’ll speak to Bear about it.” This was from Carson. Bear Johnson was the president of the Jokers; from what Jim had heard around the clubhouse the two men had served together in the Army, and so an uneasy truce existed between the Reapers and the Jokers, welded together by the bond between the two veterans. Jim didn’t relish the thought of what might happen when and if one of them retired, or worse – Cascade was a big city, but not big enough to survive a bloody war between the clubs.

He glanced around the room, noticing, for the first time, that Tom wasn’t there. That struck him as odd; Tom was a ranking member of the club and would certainly be present if anything important was being discussed. He tried to ignore the sudden flutter of nervousness in his gut that the thought gave him. 

“Now,” Carson was saying, “next agenda item. The run in two weeks.”

Jim saw a number of the other Reapers glance sideways at him, and a low mutter percolated through the room. Sonny frowned and drew breath to speak, but Carson raised his hand. “Hear me out,” he said. “Hank’s still recovering from that stab wound. We _need_ another gun, and Jim’s proven himself to be handy with ordinance as well as bikes. And Tom’s vouched for him.”

A dozen pairs of eyes turned to examine Jim. He kept his face impassive as he shrugged one shoulder casually. “Whatever you guys need. I’m here for a while, I might as well be useful. What’s the job?”

“Gun running.” There was a hard edge to Finn’s voice, as if he was daring Jim to make a fuss.

Jackpot, finally. He was absurdly glad, for a moment, that none of these guys had Sentinel senses, or else the sound of his heart thumping against his ribs would have given him away. “Okay with me,” he said, keeping his voice light. 

“Then that’s decided,” Carson said. “We’ll discuss specifics when we get closer to the run.”

Jim leaned back against the wall, almost light-headed with relief, and took a swig of beer. He’d have to get a message to Simon somehow, in the next day or two, just something quick, to let him know he was in and to expect details later. Maybe he could get Tom to cover for him, or get himself sent into town on an errand or something…

“One last piece of business,” Carson said. “New prospects. Tom?”

Tom came in the door, flashing a swift apologetic glance at Jim as he did so. Jim frowned, unsure about what was going on. Then three men filed in after him, and Jim felt a twist of fear like a knife in his guts as he realized what Tom had been trying to tell him.

The third prospect was Blair.

Jim grit his teeth, his fist clenched hard around his beer bottle. Blair was looking at Tom, at the other prospects, around at the clubhouse, everywhere but at him. _What the hell is he doing here?_ he fumed. 

“These men have applied to be prospective members of the Cascade Reapers,” Tom said, “and, as Membership Chair, I’ve vetted them all.” He went on to give a brief description of each man’s background and why they wanted to belong to the club. Caught up in the rush of his emotions, Jim barely registered the cover story Tom was presenting for Blair – something about having been kicked out of Rainier for selling drugs. 

“First time we’ve ever had a professor in the club,” someone called out from the back of the room, and everyone laughed except Jim. Blair caught his eye then, a quick, defiant glance that just served to fuel Jim’s anger. 

“You’ll be expected to do any job that a member asks of you,” Carson said, “without any backtalk or complaint. And you’re buying the first round.” He gave the wooden table a sharp rap with his gavel. “Meeting adjourned. Brothers, let’s welcome these new prospects to the club in style.” 

The room emptied out, the crowd sweeping Blair out into the bar with the other prospects. “Jim, I can explain,” Blair murmured, Sentinel-quiet, as he passed. Jim nodded once, sharply, but avoided meeting Blair’s gaze. 

Alone, he ran a hand down his face and exhaled heavily. How the hell was he going to keep both he and Sandburg safe for the next two weeks, let alone during the bust? Wearily he drained his beer and headed into the bar for another.


End file.
